


cannot be known

by goshemily



Series: secret agent man [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily/pseuds/goshemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is cold. There’s no moon in Paris tonight, and there’s no warmth in the city he loves, no one making eye contact on the metro and no one reaching into pockets for the musicians. Winter waits like a hungry thing.</p><p>A sequel to <a href="archiveofourown.org/works/2113482">secret agent man</a>, though this can also stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cannot be known

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harborshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/gifts).



Grantaire is cold. There’s no moon in Paris tonight, and there’s no warmth in the city he loves, no one making eye contact on the metro and no one reaching into pockets for the musicians. Winter waits like a hungry thing.

He walks through the 5ème hunched with his hands deep in his coat, and climbing the stairs to Enjolras’s little flat all he can think is that coming here is an admission of need, too much like begging for comfort. The wolves circling know he shouldn’t ask.

Enjolras would never bare his throat so easy. “Welcome,” he says formally, and steps aside.

The night’s already blue-black, but Enjolras has lit candles, a charming concession to a more romantic soul than Grantaire would ever guess.

“You didn’t wear your gloves,” Enjolras says.

“No.”

Enjolras looks at his face just once, and turns for the tiny kitchen. “I need you to tell me what’s missing,” he says.

Me, Grantaire won’t answer as he follows.

“The soup – something’s wrong with the flavor.”

“More wine. You never add enough.”

“Sometimes you add too much.” Enjolras reaches out, beautiful fingers waiting to be held. Grantaire takes his hand and Enjolras pulls him close, fits himself against Grantaire’s back. “Here,” he says, and dips a wooden spoon into the ceramic pot, one arm held tight around Grantaire, “taste this.”

Grantaire is rarely dutiful, but this he can do. “Pepper. Thyme.”

Enjolras stretches for the spice rack but doesn’t let him go. “Would you like help with your jacket?”

“No, I can do it.” He undoes the buttons with clumsy hands, and Enjolras at that steps away. He draws the coat off Grantaire slowly.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s nothing much.”

Enjolras goes to hang Grantaire’s coat in the hall – ever and always so correct – and when he comes back he leans against the wall and watches Grantaire stir the soup.

Grantaire doesn’t look at him.

“Joly told me the men were getting out.”

Grantaire pivots, polite brittle inquiry. “Men?”

Enjolras is a monolith, calm. “From the drug case. The ones who hurt you.”

Grantaire shrugs and goes back to stirring.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras reaches past him and turns the flame off under the pot. “Please look at me.” His voice is gentle.

This is a harder command to obey.

“Please.”

Grantaire watches his own knuckles turn whiter on the spoon.

“Please.”

There’s a movement, and Enjolras is next to him now, careful not to touch, but warmth coming off him in waves. Grantaire has never felt so cold.

“Come to bed. Let me hold you.”

“Why would you?” Grantaire mumbles.

Enjolras is quiet, and the silence is so awful, such a chasm, that Grantaire finally looks at him. Everything Enjolras believes and everything he wants is plain on his face, his gaze sure and steady and his hand stretched out.

“I love you,” he says. “Let me hold you.”

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras envelops him, all his heat and all his fire centered on Grantaire, centered in his palm as he draws Grantaire by the hand to bed.

He undresses Grantaire slowly, lingering like he can’t bear to let him go, and by the time they’re pressed together skin to skin, huddled under the blankets, Grantaire can almost feel his limbs.

“Tell me again, please,” he whispers into the hollow of Enjolras’s throat.

“I love you,” Enjolras says.

**Author's Note:**

> For [harborshore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore), the best friend a girl could have - titled after the poem "[I Cannot Be Known](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-cannot-be-known/)" by Paul Éluard, because I know how you feel about him. <3
> 
> [clenster](http://clenster.tumblr.com/) drew really lovely art of Enjolras and Grantaire cuddling, and you can find it [here](http://clenster.tumblr.com/post/99351708241/soemily-replied-to-your-post-actually-any-quick).


End file.
